New York,
Katrine,
United States
The steady beeping of the heart monitor and the sharp smell of disinfectant pulled me back to the surface. My vision steadied gradually, like a photograph developing — first blurred outlines, then details. A white ceiling. Cold fluorescent lights. The telltale crinkle of a paper gown beneath my thighs.
A hospital. Obviously.
I turned my head slightly to the right. Elie was there, slumped in his chair with the dignity of a man who had absolutely not planned on spending his evening here. Arms crossed, head slightly tilted, his dark strands pulled into a low ponytail that had half come undone in his sleep. His eyelids fluttered at the quiet rhythm of his breathing. He wasn't particularly handsome — but passable, in the way of a man who makes no effort and gets away with it anyway.
I slid out of the bed and leaned toward him. He was dozing with an endearing dedication. I tapped his cheek.
He jolted awake.
—Ka...Katrine! What are you doing up? Go sit down, he said, springing to his feet, visibly disoriented.
He stood barely half a head taller than me. I sat back on the bed without arguing — my legs weren't in a position to negotiate, anyway.
—You came running into the pizzeria in a panic before you passed out. Are you okay?
Something clicked somewhere behind my temples.
The delivery. The forest. The scream. The dark blood on the dead leaves. And those eyes — green, cold, bottomless — fixed on me as though I were a problem to be dealt with.
My gaze locked on some indistinct point on the wall across from me.
I'm alive. He didn't follow me. Or maybe he couldn't catch me. Or maybe he knows exactly where I am and is simply taking his time. Which would be, objectively, even more unsettling.
Obviously, you idiot. He saw you.
The police, then? No — no proof. I couldn't even remember his face, only his eyes, that indescribable shade of green, a hue that had no business existing in a dark forest at that hour. They'd take me for a hysterical woman. Or a liar. Or both. But staying silent would make me an accomplice. Which I had no intention of becoming.
— Tell me, Elie — were there any announcements tonight? The kind involving... crime? A discovery?
He looked at me with the expression of a man trying to determine whether the question was serious.
— I don't know. What kind of discovery?
— Anything. Something unusual.
He shook his head. The body hadn't been found yet, then. Which left me a window. Narrow, uncomfortable — but a window, all the same.
— Katrine. Did something happen during your delivery?
I flinched slightly.
— Why do you ask?
— Because you looked like someone who had just witnessed a murder.
I laughed inwardly. If only he knew how accurate his instincts were tonight.
— I thought I saw a strange animal in the forest. I panicked. I came back.
Better to keep him out of it. Bringing him in would be painting a target on his back. He looked at me for a long moment — this man had no apparent control over his expressions; everything read across his face like large-print text. He didn't believe a word of my story. Which was understandable: I don't look like a woman who panics at an animal in the woods. But he shrugged after a brief pause, clearly disinclined to dig further. Some battles aren't worth fighting at midnight in a hospital hallway.
The door burst open.
Elie and I startled in perfect synchrony. Arabelle made her entrance the way she always did everything — with an energy that preceded her own arrival — and pulled me into her arms before I could react. Her eyes were swollen, her mascara long since surrendered.
— I'm so sorry I got here so late, Kat! My bastard of a boss wouldn't let me leave before my shift ended. I was so worried!
I patted her shoulder with the restrained tenderness of someone who sincerely appreciated the gesture but was running short on oxygen. She was suffocating me. I gave her cheek a gentle pinch.
— It doesn't matter. You're here...that's what counts.
She wiped her eyes, turned toward Elie, and before he could brace himself, she pulled him into the same tropical-intensity embrace she had just given me.
—What would I have done if you hadn't been here? My poor little Katrine. You're an angel, Eliott!
—Uh... thank you. My name is Elie, not Eliott, he murmured, stiff as a post.
—Oh, I'm so terribly sorry, Arabelle sobbed, genuinely devastated by the error.
She cried harder. Elie patted her back with awkward determination, eyes lifting to mine with an expression that was screaming *help* in capital letters. I was tempted to let him handle it — character-building, after all — but he had kept vigil over me tonight. I owed him one; now he owed me one too. Balance restored.
—Time to go. We'll take care of the discharge paperwork, Arabelle.
She released Elie with the visible relief of a man being set free. He was clearly not comfortable with physical contact — a commonality I wouldn't have suspected. Arabelle took my hand and we stepped out into the hallway.
I studied every face we passed. Every shape that moved. A man leaning against the corridor wall. Another checking his phone near the elevator. Each one was a momentary suspect my brain assessed and released within the span of a second. He could be here. He could be anywhere.
Was Arabelle in danger because of me?
— Katrine.
I looked down at her. The redhead was no longer smiling. Her face held something more unguarded, more serious.
—Please take care of yourself.
She didn't need to say more. I knew what it meant. I was her only real friend — a fact that had always struck me as mildly improbable, like a casting error no one had bothered to correct. And despite every historical attempt I had made to discourage attachment, she had stayed. Stubborn as a plant growing through a crack in concrete.
—Understood.
★★★
The ride home went as usual: Arabelle recounted her day in successive layers, and I followed the thread of her voice the way one follows a path at night — just enough not to get lost, without really seeing where it led. Beyond the window, the streets of New York slid past, and in every dark corner I searched for green eyes.
Once home, I went straight to the bathroom to wash up, then slipped into bed. I wasn't hungry. I had no desire to talk. I had only one desire — to have this night behind me.
But the bed was too large. The room too quiet.
If someone came in right now, would I hear them? If a hand reached for me in the darkness...would I have time?
I slid the knife under my pillow and prayed I wouldn't have to use it before dawn.
✵ ✶ ✷ ✸ ✹ ✺
Day had broken. I hadn't slept.
Six in the morning. My phone buzzed — a message from Elie letting me know it was my day off. Excellent news. I would therefore spend the day alone in this apartment cataloguing blind spots. Delightful.
Arabelle had already left. Her boss required her presence at six for a job that started at seven — a managerial eccentricity she mentioned to me regularly, with an energy that blended exasperation and, it must be said, a certain fascination with the man himself. A law firm. Adams, something like that. She complained about him often, but in her stories one detail recurred with a perhaps involuntary insistence: his looks. I'll spare you the particulars.
I had made myself eggs and bacon. I didn't finish the plate.
Staying locked inside was not an option — not for my mental equilibrium, already under considerable strain. I pulled on a sweatshirt and leggings and went out for some air.
I walked without any particular destination, crossing the residential neighborhood, emerging into an adjacent district. The morning was grey and cool, the sidewalks still sparsely peopled. I passed through the park Arabelle had shown me when I first arrived — russet trees, damp benches, pigeons indifferent to the state of the world.
And directly across from it: a police precinct.
I stopped.
Coincidence has a very direct way of making its suggestions, sometimes.
I found myself standing before the entrance without having quite decided to go there. The glass door, the flag, the steady flow of uniforms in and out. There had still been no official announcement this morning. The body was still asleep somewhere beneath the dead leaves. I might have been the only living person who knew it existed.
I went still.
No. Not now. Not without proof, not without being able to pinpoint the exact location, not without risking a seat in an office answering questions I couldn't control. I'll come back when there's an announcement. Cleaner. Safer.
I turned sharply and walked into a chest.
Hard. Very hard. The kind of chest that doesn't apologize for existing.
I looked up.
A tall man, bronzed skin, dark hair neatly swept back. A pale blue shirt, grey trousers, the kind of outfit that said Iwork here without needing to say it. And sapphire-blue eyes looking down at me with a quiet curiosity, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
I had always had a weakness for beauty. It was a minor flaw, but a documented one.
— Is there a problem, miss ?
His voice was steady. Soft, almost reassuring...the kind of voice you could imagine dictating depositions or de-escalating difficult situations. A cop's voice, in all probability, because this was evidently where my morning had taken me.
—No. No problem.
I sidestepped him and walked away at an even pace. Not too fast—running in front of a police precinct would send an ambiguous message. I glanced over my shoulder. He was still watching me, motionless, with that calm attention just a shade too professional to be innocent.
I turned back and quickened my step.